


something human

by cesellia



Series: silent black birds [2]
Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Alina Starkov, Dissociation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, arguably fluff, but that means nothing because i don't write sweet things, this is one of the sweetest things ive ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28665306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cesellia/pseuds/cesellia
Summary: Following the events of the attack on Os Alta and Alina's betrayal to Ravka. The city is left in disarray, angered and confused by their new normal, and Alina is left to handle the situation, physically, on her own — the Darkling dead set on bringing an end to the Lantsov rule.
Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Series: silent black birds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066439
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	something human

**Author's Note:**

> this is the second part in the series. this fic's plot is hardly a plot and is more so just to be a smooth transition between alina's uncertainty to being the full blown evil dark queen of ravka she always wanted to be.
> 
> after this, fics will either be multi chaptered and extremely long one shots. most of which will end up having at least a sliver of that cese-brand fucked upness. there are many original characters that are mentioned in this fic while playing no huge role, and those characters are supposed to be little sneak peeks for future works.
> 
> i thought i was pushing it by trying to make this fic 6k, but lo and behold, its a lot more than that
> 
> also apologies if the formatting on this fic is weird, i noticed all my previous works had weird spacing between paragraphs and i tried to fix that in this one

It rained for five nights after the attack.

On the first night, the rain was only a mist, a gentle erasure of the old guard to welcome Alina and the Darkling as Ravka’s rulers with open arms. Blood and ashes that littered the cobblestone streets were washed away alongside the Lantsov rule. But by the second night, it grew into a merciless storm that flooded the streets and the poorly built houses in the lower districts. And for the remainder of the five nights, it was impossible for her to leave the palace.

Alina spent those long, dreadful days gazing out the window of her bedchamber — eyes fixated on the destruction she herself had caused, on the townspeople and soldiers drenched with bone achingly cold water as they fought through the storm to clear away the remaining debris and pray for the city’s normality to return.

It felt like it had been years ago that she stood upon a podium in the plaza, heat from a nearby fire brushing against her cheek, and addressed the situation to soldiers and civilians alike. Then, she was emotionless in her speech but that night brought an endless stream of tears at the sight she had witnessed. Scared children screaming for their parents; ashen-faced teenagers awoken to the sounds of gunshots and screaming; elderly lovers holding on to each other, praying to their Saints for the inferno nightmare to end. But it had only been five days. Five days spent in the gut-wrenching solitude of the Little Palace — the only comfort given to her was the expert hands of Genya that pulled and twisted her hair in every direction in the mornings.

The Lantsov family, save for Vasily whose body was torn apart and left to be feasted on by the _nichevo’ya_ , escaped their capture and fled north. Nikolai separated himself from the group soon after and silence about his whereabouts fell, leaving Aleksander to begin his hunt for the King — a grotesque desire to have him return to Os Alta and face an elegant execution in front of anyone who would dare object to his rule. 

“You said we wouldn’t be separated again,” Alina had told Aleksander the morning before he left, fingers tracing over the scar she had yet to find the time to admire. “ _They_ will not listen to me. They’ll only take orders from you.”

“My soldiers will be just as docile and quick to train as yours were. All you need to do is make them understand that you can be a heartless and cruel commander just as I am. Yell at them. Burn their skin. Do what you see fit,” Aleksander responded, taking her hand and brushing his lips against her cold knuckles. “I will not be gone for long.”

But it quickly became apparent to Alina that the frail merging of soldiers would not be her biggest stress factor. The civilians in and outside of Os Alta’s walls were shocked and confused and angry. Outposts were being attacked; riots leaving more deaths than the initial take-over occurred all over the nation. Strict curfews were instated in every major city, and one step out of line resulted in jail time. The soldiers that monitored every individuals’ steps ensured she would be safe for the time being, but it wouldn‘t take long before the mobs would not be put at momentary ease by her’s — or more accurately _Aleksander’s_ words — and would turn gruesome.

_I will not be gone for long_ , she repeated his words to herself during every moment of unbearable stretches of silence that followed every meeting. While she did not believe in herself, Alina could keep Os Alta from collapsing on its shaky foundation on her own for weeks — even months, if she learned to harden herself from the threats and horrors around her. She had been acting as the ethereal Saint for months now, and she could bring everyone to their knees in adoration and utter belief in her divinity.

Like Nikolai, many of Alina’s soldiers and generals fled the city that night too, escaping through the old passageways built when Os Alta was first settled, laying abandoned for almost five hundred years. Very few of her army remained. Of those few, was Tamar and Tolya. Dread had grown in the weeks leading to attack, uncertain if their loyalty would remain to her, and when they did, a wave of relief washed over her. 

However, conversations with the twins ran thin, and it was only their presence and protection that they offered to her going forward. In a way, that was a relief. She knew by their sideways glances and dubious expressions whenever Aleksander was at her side that they did not approve. But she was a Saint in their eyes, and they would follow her with credence to the edge of the world and to the bottomless depths below that would only lead to their unceremonious deaths.

Aleksander had once called their kind foolish for their blind faith in a person who would make just as many mistakes as the saintless, and Alina chiefly agreed. But she also took comfort in the fact that there would always be people who believed in her decisions when she thought herself to be going down the wrong course of action.

Her eyes sharpened into focus when Genya sighed behind her and began to speak, “It would be nice if it stopped raining for once,” her hand tugged on a braid and pain ran through her scalp, but Alina remained still, accustomed to the tortuous procedure. “You’ve only lived here for a year, but Os Alta _never_ gets hit this hard. Even when that typhoon destroyed the coastal cities three years ago, we received nothing more than a light mist.”

“It’s like the skies are punishing us for our wrongdoings,” Alina bitterly laughed, her fingers instinctively reaching to pull on the loose strings of her  _kefta_ . “I don’t mind the rain. People move slower and no work gets done, and that allows me to be able to explore this place in its entirety.”

There were still so many areas left in the Little Palace that she never had the chance to witness — and even more so in the Grand Palace. Underground passageways going through the whole city; storm shelters large enough to house an entire block; the royal physicians’ clinics hidden from view, performing work she was more than willing to not to find out about.

“I know this place like the back of my hand. I could show you all the little hidden areas no one is supposed to know about,” said Genya, putting a pin in her hair and stepping away. “And there we have it. Now, where would Sankta Alina wish to go this dreary morning?”

Alina leaned back in the wooden chair, hand gripping a silver pocket mirror to see her appearance. In previous times of stress, her skin would grey and morph to expose brittle bones, her hair grew dull, and deep dark bags formed under her eyes. But there was no trace of that now — only an appearance more appropriate for a Saint. Her skin glowed; brunette hair radiating even in the absence of the sun; crystal eyes shining with a false divinity. She presumed she had Genya to thank for all of that.

“Just the library today,” Alina finally answered after a pause, a _click_ following the shut of her mirror. “I would rather not risk the possibility of bumping into someone who wants to talk to me right now.”

Genya hummed and did a mocking bow as she spoke with a derisive voice, “As you wish, _moi soverenyi_.”

Alina could not stifle the laugh growing in her chest. “You are the last person I want to hear calling me that.”

  
  


She knew the Little Palace’s library far better than its oldest residents. Shelves reached impossible heights on the ground floor, and for most of her stay, she had to bother a servant to find a ladder for her until they chose to keep the ladder in there, gathering dust in a corner while waiting for her next usage. In the centre of the room was a sitting area, fitted with velvet cushioned chairs and divans. The second floor received few visitors, and the dust was proof of that. Passing every four aisles revealed single wooden chairs accompanied by only a side table and an oil lamp. She often viewed the second floor to be her secret special place, wandering through and resting there with the mannerisms of a ghost.

They sat in the sitting area — the morning sun pushing through the horizon and lighting up the room. It would be easy to assume they were alone, but Alina was never truly alone anymore. Guards stood watch in dark corners, doing so only because they did not want to be held liable for losing her. Many of the guards and soldiers surrounding her had yet to see her as their second commander — only a boney little Saint that they had to protect so the Darkling would not slice their bodies into something that resembled nothing more than jam.

Alina held on to the faith that she could gain (and regain, on certain levels) their loyalty. It took three months for the Second Army soldiers to accept her as someone worth taking orders from. And when the time comes to finally attack the opposing force, they will all come to realise that she can be just as heinous as the Darkling.

_They won’t realise that while I’m having a tea party_ , she grimly thought as Genya refilled their porcelain cups with elderberry tea — a drink she did not need to add a gross amount of sugar to in order to become addicted. Embarrassed, she realised Genya had been talking to her the whole time during her musing.

“Well?“ asked Genya, perking an eyebrow when Alina’s face distorted into a mixture of confusion and guilt. “Were you seriously not listening to a word I have been saying?”

Alina could not help but sink into her chair, cheeks ablaze. “You were saying something about...cosmetics?”

“ _I was saying,_ ” Genya clicked her tongue against her teeth, “That Lord Ludomir, the noble who lives out by the Fjerdan border, had me work on his wife’s face because he did not think she was beautiful enough. He said that to me while _she was still in the room!_ ”

“Ludomir is a greasy old creep. He came here two months ago for a budget meeting and spent the entire time making advances on all the young women in the room,” Alina sneered. “The reason as to why the lady remains with him is beyond me.”

“He’s rich,” Genya responded, hiding her smile in the teacup. “If I was _otkazat’sya_ and didn't have any money, I would marry him.”

“Come on, Genya.” 

“ _I would,_ ” she whispered. “And you would, too. Before you found out that you were Grisha, didn't you ever think about marrying some decaying rich man so you didn't have to live on rations and die from starvation at age thirty-seven?”

“I think I was too busy not dying from starvation to think about money or courtship,” Alina sighed, and her attention drifted to the ticking of a clock hidden somewhere in the vastness of the library.

The orphanage of Keramzin was home to dozens of clocks. Drawing room; classrooms; kitchens; even in her bedroom, leading to many nights burying her head underneath the single stale pillow and trying to focus intently on her heartbeat before her nights were plagued by insomnia. As a soldier, in the tent she slept in that housed ten more people than it could hold, there would always be someone who owned a watch that became mind breakingly difficult to try and ignore.

As a child, Alina thought it was no more than an annoying sound that made it hard to concentrate with. But it was as a soldier that it evolved from annoyance to paranoia. With every passing _tick_ , she became increasingly more aware that an ambush could occur at any moment. As the ticking persisted, her heart would give out at every crunching of grass under boots — fearing that those unsteady heartbeats would be her last.

She stopped noticing the clock’s ticking when she moved to the Little Palace, but as riots and threats of assassinations grew alongside her anxiety, it returned with vicious vengeance. The clock in her bedchamber was removed — resulting in her just nearly missing vital meetings — in the hope that her paranoia would leave with it. Unsurprisingly, it did not, but now it was only another emotion she was trained to bury to within herself and not let another soul know it was there. It was never that simple, however, every negative emotion Nikolai and Aleksander taught her to hide always returned in the quiet solitude of her bedchamber — taking the form of a hummingbird’s tremor or lethargic restlessness that kept her awake until the next morning’s sun.

When Alina’s faded attention returned to the present, Genya was standing up, eyes facing double figures behind her as she spoke, “Duty calls. I don't think we’ll have another opportunity to talk again today. See you tomorrow, Alina.”

She left without another word, and any trace of energy escaped from Alina’s body as she sat sunkenly on the chair. It had been a surprise to her — realising that idle conversations drained her faster than any meeting about financial aid or transportation difficulties. In meetings, the knowledge and steps to take came naturally to her; a keen eye for problem-solving she never knew she had. It was during the conversations about fashion and personal lives that she froze up; a mind unintentionally falling back into the cool and calculative mindset she spent months tweaking and perfecting. She could only be thankful to Genya for being understanding and patient with her.

The ticking flooded the empty room, and Alina knew it would not be long before real life called her away to focus on the matters burning through Ravka.

But until her call came, she decided to visit the palace’s infirmary. With the flooding mixing in with the dropping temperatures, a mild flu slowly spread across the palace and took a particular interest in the young children.

“Please, _moi soverenyi_ ,” the nurse garbed in a grey shift and white apron panted when she saw Alina slip in, eyes dark and heavy from working double shifts. “You must not go near the infected. Surely you must remember that you have fallen sick more than _anyone_ I have ever worked with in only the span of five months.”

The memories were far too harrowing to forget. Laying on her bed until sunset; legs red and far too weak to handle her weight; a fever burning through her body and melting her skull; an acute blindness that felt like barbed wires tying around her eyes. It was different now. Alina never separated herself from her powers, and the illnesses she was prone to — while not gone entirely — were pushed and locked away in a barricaded room. By that point, it had been two months since she even had a symptom of sickness.

“It’s okay, Alenka,” assured Alina, placing a hand on the nurse’s shoulder. “I will only stay for a short while.”

With the sounds of sick patients heaving and sobbing, it was a surprise to her to see the infirmary sterile clean. The floors were kept white and pristine; medical supplies and medicine neatly tucked away in cabinets; the aisles of beds occupied washed and made comfortable on a frequent basis. If it had not been for the amount of people occupying the beds, one would not have been able to tell there was a flu spreading.

An overwhelming majority of the patients were children, pale and turned to skin and bones from not only the sickness but also their newfound destitution. On the night of the attack, Alina made Aleksander promise that not a single child left in Os Alta would get hurt during the crossfire, for the soldiers to not harm a hair on their head even if they came charging at them with the first sharp object they got their hands on. And he stayed true to the promise — she knew he would because he was no more of a monster than she was.

Unlike the adults who knew to fear and show respect — albeit feigned — to her, children peeked their heads out from under their pillows to gawk and stare at her as she walked in. It took every fibre in her to not speak and bring her light to each and every one of their foreheads, a simple tactic she used hundreds of times on the devout to keep their trust. There was simply not enough time, and the presence of the exasperated nurse looming behind her was not at all comforting.

“Um, Miss Sankta,” a girl with feverishly red skin squeaked, pulling on the sleeve of her _kefta_. “Is my mom okay? It's been a week, and they still won't let me see her ‘cause of the flu.”

Alina knelt down by her bedside, taking her freckled hand into hers and whispered with the nurturing voice she had pretended to have in the presence of her worshippers, “You should not worry, little one. In a matter of days, I am certain you will get to see her again. What's your name?”

Around her, she could hear the whispering of jealous and far too curious children surrounding them. But it only mattered that the girl did not notice it.

“It’s...It’s Maria. Muh-ree-uh,” she replied, lifting a finger with each syllable. “Miss Alenka said I could go home in three days if my fever goes down.”

“I am sure it will,” Alina whispered in assurance. “Until then, I will visit you whenever I have the chance so you do not feel alone, little Maria.”

Maria’s head perked up at the mention of her name. Alina found out that people liked that, stating their names. It told them that she was listening to them and that she cared for them, however varying in genuineness. But with the children, it was always genuine. She could see herself in them — small, orphaned, and afraid. Many of their parents and siblings passed and will pass during the war, and there was only so much she could do to ensure the safety of Ravkan families. Most of what she was left able to do was for those surviving to know they were not forgotten — that even if their new home became an orphanage, they would have a fair chance of a happy upbringing as any other child would. Within the new walls of Os Alta, she wanted them to never know the feeling of fear and the impending doom of war.

“ _Moi soverenyi,_ ” Alenka started behind her. “It is not wise for you to be _touching_ the sick. If you would, _please —_ ”

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” sighed Alina, pulling herself up from her knees. On the wooden clock bolted to the wall, the hour hand ticked closer to eight, and the call of work came for her. “However, I will be back tomorrow. Treat the children kindly.”

  
  


From morning to late in the night, Alina spent the day accompanied by wild-eyed soldiers and generals who, even during the time of crisis, refused to take the situation seriously and instead stuffed their faces with bread and wine — understandably leading to the depletion of her appetite.

“The attack on Fort Lindahl last night has left our troops with an exhausted arsenal,” a general spoke, greasy hands thumbing through a collection of letters. “Thankfully, the fort is near the Fjerdan border and therefore Lord Ludomir has offered his assistance, but his _assistance_ means nothing when the fort is still continuously being attacked. What they need are _actual_ reinforcements and more weapons.”

Alina tapped her pen against her reddening temple. “Os Kervo has seen few fatalities, yes? Send the soldiers we can afford to lose and have them bring ammunition and food.”

“You would be sending more soldiers to their deaths!” another general cried out. “We need to evacuate Fort Lindahl and have all of our forces on that side of the Fold regroup!”

“Nikolai’s forces are moving north towards Fjerda,” Alina snapped, raising her voice to silence the faint whispers gathering in the boardroom. “That fort is the largest in the area and is our main defence against both the Fjerdans and the rebellion. And just a reminder that Lantsov loyalists are not rioting in only one or two cities. They are killing both our men _and_ civilians in every town in Ravka, and we cannot afford to leave behind the lives that create our bullets and feed our soldiers. Regrouping _all_ of them at a time like this would be a negligence to our nation.”

Alina breathed to calm herself and continued, “No matter what move we make, soldiers will die; that is the consequence of war. But we should make their deaths meaningful and not just another corpse on an unnamed battlefield. Send soldiers to Fort Lindahl. That is an order.”

A brief silence fell over the room — awkward coughs of the older generals before whispering to their right hand to follow through with the order; a pen writing on a wrinkled piece of paper; stares that felt to be audible in the absence of noise.

They were _listening_ to her. Relief came over her, and Alina had to bite back the smile that threatened to show. It was a start, but it was not nearly enough. Loyalty was one thing — respect was entirely different. She was by no means as charismatic and sinister as Aleksander when it came to gaining the respect and fear from soldiers; it would take years of studying his every move for her to ever come close to being as controlling as him.

“ _Moi soverenyi,_ ” a general spoke to break the silence, his voice surprisingly meek for his age and greying appearance. “If I may ask, what will be our plan for transporting and receiving supplies across the Fold? With the riots adding on top of the anxiety associated with that _thing_ , the men are becoming increasingly warier of crossing through the there.”

“Ravkans have been travelling through the Fold for centuries. The level of danger presented in that place is brought about by a soldier’s ability to stay calm and choose which battles they are willing to fight. I am their commander, not their tour guide. I can not be there to hold their hand every time they pass through there,” Alina responded, straightening her posture. “However, the routes currently in use for transport will need to be updated. The roads are unpopulated and secluded, but it was Lantsov who set up those routes and would therefore stalk those roads for an ambush.”

The room lit up with the noise of eager voices and the unfolding of maps. Alina knew to keep a watchful eye on every general in there for even a slight hint of sabotage, but it was so easy to get caught up in the joy of seeing everyone concentrated on resolving the matters presented in front of them — an atmosphere inching closer to what it had been in the war room a month prior. It would not be long before their motivation to follow her command turned from keeping themselves safe to genuinely understanding that what they were doing was for survival and prosperity of Ravka.

In a blink, hours had flown right past her — the sun setting and the moon, while still hidden by the rain, rising to her full glory. Transport routes were updated; budgets were managed; deaths in the military were noted — something that had once given her despair that was now only a statistic. Her back ached with the uncomfortable leaning position and for sitting so long in a wooden chair. To say she deserved to sleep was beyond an understatement, but there were still issues that could not go unaddressed until the sun rose.

Alina forced her languid body to remain upright as she spoke, “I want a report on everything that is currently happening here in Os Alta.”

  
  


Her nights were spent far away from the city. The previous night, Alina had been at an abandoned fort that had been partially reclaimed by nature; tonight was at an inn located only a few miles east of the Fold. There was a bookshelf barren of any books; an unlit fireplace with charred wood still smouldering; a large window that would have allowed her to see miles worth of forests, but in the distortion, she could only make out the hazy outline of Douglas fir swaying violently in the torrential storm.

“Arrest numbers are down, so are the riots and deaths,” Alina quietly explained, fingers habitually pulling on one another. “Whether it is caused by them coming to their senses or just exhausted, I do not know. I can’t walk outside and see how many people try to put a bullet through my skull to check.”

“They are behaving,” Aleksander began, arm wrapped lazily around her waist. “That is what’s important. We can not expect them to see our way of thinking so early on. As long as they know not to hiss and bite at the hand trying to help them, we are good for now. As for the soldiers, how are they accommodating?”

“It’s a slow process,” Alina sighed, but a slight smile pulled on her lips. “Not a single punch was thrown in today’s meeting, however. I say another month and they’ll start giving each other compliments that aren't backhanded.”

“That _would_ be nice,” said Aleksander with a faint smile, leaving the _but we both know the officials chosen by Lantsov will never be on our side_ unspoken. She knew that once the King was executed and they were officially declared royalty, more than half of the generals that had been in that meeting would be dead — keeping them alive would be a liability for destruction anyway, but it still tugged uncomfortably on her heart.

The room fell quiet with only the distant, distorted echoes of thunder present. Most of her nights were spent like that — a debrief on what was happening in the city and then a comfortable silence to lure her to a sleep that would not come to her when she was alone in the Little Palace. There, even if her body moved with the heaviness of a corpse desperate to pass on, Alina would be restless, pacing back and forth and jumping at the slightest noise that came outside her bedchamber until her legs would give out from exhaustion.

But ever since she became the spy for the opposing force, there was not a night that passed by where Aleksander’s arms were not around her. At first, Alina came to him because she knew that within the solitude of night she would begin to doubt her judgement, and with her body pressed against his, her mind would never have the chance to wander in that direction. As her confidence grew along with her insomnia, it became a necessity.

Their nights were commonly spent in silence. Alina was often too tired to talk, and Aleksander was more than willing to merely run his fingers through her hair as his mind went to Saints know where. When they did speak, it was of the war or of the few memories from their childhoods that did not bring up negative emotions (she realised, with Mal now gone, she had little fond memories to tell) — or on the rarest occasion, he would read one of the countless books he always kept on him to her. 

Ever since they met, his voice was effortlessly able to bring her into tranquillity. And Alina found that ironic: she had seen countless soldiers and officials tense up with fear at the very sound of his voice — and at one point, she had been one of those frightened soldiers. Those nights were the ones she did not sleep through, engrossed little on the story and more infatuated the velvety soft voice that led her to forget about her exhaustion altogether. It was an infatuation that made her feel warm but also coursed a deep, chronic aching inside that could not be treated with how things were.

Alina raised her hand with indolence to touch the place on Aleksander’s face where a scar should have shown, whispering at a volume she was not sure he could even hear, “I miss you, Sasha.”

Aleksander remained expressionless for only a moment, staring down at her with inscrutable eyes, before softening with a sympathetic smile. “I know,” he whispered to match her volume, fingers intertwining with hers. “I do too. But the King _needs_ to be found. After we find him, we can be together again. _For good._ ”

Her head drooped down to his shoulder with a sigh. “And how long will that take?”

“He is still travelling north. The farther up we go, however, there are fewer people willing to help us that have viable information on where he is. That is unsurprising, everyone here is a Lantsov loyalist,” Aleksander explained. “This should take no more than a week. But that might change, Nikolai’s army has taken to hiding themselves underground, and at any given moment, they might try to attack. Them showing themselves would be nice, however, then we could exterminate them all in just one go.”

Alina tensed at that, memories of Mal she would rather not remember resurfacing. It was the night of the attack that pained her the most — the shocked and angered expression on his face when he saw her pressed against the enemy as fire and chaos rang around them. She did not want to think about what would happen the next time she saw him. She did not want to relive the emotions that swelled inside her when he refused to stay in Os Alta. She did not want to be the one to bring Mal to his death.

“Alina,” Aleksander began, fingers rubbing the ragged, burnt skin of her wrist that he would not have been able to see. “You don’t need to worry about it. I will not force you into something you can not handle.”

“That’s...not what’s troubling,” Alina said, lifting herself to meet his eyes. “If it came down to it...if there was an attack on Os Alta tonight, I wouldn't hesitate to kill them. If it's Mal, Nikolai, or anyone that I loved that chose to betray me, I would kill them without hesitation.”

She breathed out an unsteady breath. “But what will happen after the war is over? After there is finally time for my mind to ease, what will happen to _me?_ I can suppress any emotion that will affect the outcome of this war, but after it’s all over, I won’t be able to keep it suppressed. I don't know what will happen to me — all that sadness, all that guilt. Will it all haunt me for eternity? Will all the effort I put into this war turn into some divine punishment in the form of immortality?”

Aleksander fell silent, staring at her with an expression she could not begin to decipher — if it was pity or anger or indifference, before sighing and kissing her wrist. “It may happen. Immortality will eventually ease the suffering, but even I lie awake sometimes and relive the deaths I caused three hundred years ago. Your guilt could tread on forever, some of which you won’t even feel for a century or two. And it will be far more painful than whatever a medical student from Shu Han could do to you on the operating table.”

He brushed back a strand of hair that obscured her face and leaned to kiss her forehead. “But having someone with you to share that burden makes it easier to handle.”

Alina forced a smile. “You would not survive carrying half the trauma I have to carry.”

“And you wouldn’t with mine, little Saint.”

She tangled her fingers into his hair and brought him down into a kiss — an action she’d done countless times before but it always felt like it was the first. “It feels stupid telling _you_ this..., but please be careful. You might be able to handle it, but the idea of being on my own is far too terrifying to think about. I can’t do any of this without you.”

He gently pulled her to lay against his chest, her body’s desperate exhausted pleas resurfacing. “One week. One week until we find the King, and I return to take his place. Then there will be a disgustingly large feast held at the Grand Palace where generals stuff their mouths with meat and alcohol until they choke to death,” Aleksander said with a smile she did not need to see to know it was there. “Get some sleep, Alina. You deserve it more than anyone.”

Every time Alina went to sleep, she prayed to whichever Saint that cared about her that she would wake up next to him, peacefully. But that was never the case, she would always awaken uncomfortably in her bedchamber at the Little Palace. Alone with the distant ticking of a clock.

  
  


One week turned into two turned into an “indefinite amount of time.” Alina was not angered or even saddened by the increasingly grim updates on the King — she knew from experience what running on empty for weeks would do to a soldier. She was just _tired_.

The riots and crime rates in Ravka dropped down to how they were a month prior, but she was still discouraged from leaving the palace — a place that was becoming her personal Hell. Meetings starting at seven in the morning and ending at ten in the evening; breaking up petty fights _she_ should not be responsible for; walls that were slowly closing in on her.

But the rain was finally gone, and Alina could not bear another claustrophobic moment within the palace. Even if it was only for ten minutes, she needed to go outside.

“ _Moi soverenyi_ ,” Tamar reached for the cuff of her _kefta_. “I urge you to reconsider. The threats may have stopped, but that does not mean it is safe to venture outside just yet. At least wait until the Darkling returns. He may lead you to your death, but he certainly will not allow anyone but himself to do it.”

“You are my guard, Tamar. Your job is to ensure my safety,” Alina said, blatantly ignoring her comment. “That includes both inside and outside the palace walls. And it's not as if I am going to the city’s lower districts.”

There was hesitance in Tamar’s movement, as if she was about to protest, before she decided on bowing and agreeing with her. It always ended like that — a disagreement between her and the twins before they submit to whatever she said, no matter who was right in the situation.

When Alina made it outside — expertly slipping passed men who would want to speak with her —, prickling autumn breeze brushed against her cheek with the harshness of a jagged branch that could have caused her to bleed, and it took all her self control to not burst into laughter. Almost a month was spent with her not allowed outside, and the moment she finally was out, it was _painful_.

The unfolding scenery was a comfort to her, at least. Trees with golden and red leaves lined the walkway; the roof’s of buildings shined with the sunlight that pushed through the cracks in the grey clouds; the return of civilians walking and buying from the food vendors who also made their return from hiding in the safety of their houses. But she knew it was a mere concealment of the damage done the closer one got to the lower districts. Windows shattered; houses made of wood partially burnt; homes that were supposed to protect families from the weather now drenched from the flood.

With a twinge in her heart, Alina gathered supplies from the palace that would not be missed — small crates brimmed with fruits, clothing and blankets. It was the closest thing to an apology that she could give to the less fortunate that lived in the upper district. First, the attack left them emotionally scarred, and then a punishing storm destroyed what they owned.

Of the people she was permitted to help, the children loved her the most. Many were shy but had the sparkle in their eyes of wonderment — others even had the courage to pull at her sleeve and ask her questions she had been asked hundreds of times before ( _who were you before you were the Sun Summoner? could you show me your magic? do all Grisha look like that?_ ). Their parents and the middle-aged did not share their enthusiasm, glaring at her with disgust and refusing her help or staring at her with distrust as she assisted in installing their windows. The elderly were neither of those. They looked at her with sunken dark eyes marked with a mental exhaustion that no amount of support could fix.

There was one resident that stood out among the rest. It was a lady, skin wrinkled from ageing closer to eighty and hair dull and white. She lived by herself and grandson who hid behind a door during Alina’s entire visit — eyes lifeless with fear.

“Sit, girl, sit,” the elderly lady began. “I have lemon tea and biscuits. You should eat. You’re not doing your body any favours by looking like what my great-grandmother looks like currently.”

“She will not be having that.” Tamar sourly said from behind her.

“It’s okay, Tamar,” Alina smiled, taking a seat on the sofa across from the lady and holding the porcelain cup in her hands without drinking from it. “What is your name, madam?”

“My name matters not anymore,” she explained. She instead spoke of her childhood. She was from the noble family, Ryndin — married in by a man whose life was taken during an attack from Shu Han thirty years prior.

“Not even ten years ago, my daughter and her husband joined the military,” Ryndin spoke. “There was a festival in Os Kervo, and on that day, they wanted me to take little Yasha there so they could be reunited after four years of separation.” Her head dropped down. “It was a lovely day, really. Yasha and I ate more candy than an old lady and a kid should be eating. They didn't arrive that evening. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Then we returned home, and on our doorstep was a letter written by their general.”

A long silence followed. And then Ryndin continued, “This house wasn’t built for the likes of two. They were supposed to return from the war with more money than we could dream of, and then we would all move into a manor on the west side of the Fold. Now their gone, and little Yasha has to sleep in my cluttered room while I stay asleep on this very couch.

“The day I lost my nobility and wealth was the day Os Alta stopped caring for us. There once was a typhoon to hit twenty years back, nastiest thing I’ve lived to ever see. Not a single home in the most outer reaches of the city was left in working condition. We here weren’t hit so bad, but talk to the elders who lived out there. They never had the opportunity to recover. A war, a storm, a plague, even a famine and the King never helped us. Where was he? Drinking fine wine on a hunting trip up north,” Ryndin breathed and grabbed Alina’s hand. “Thank you, girl, for the help you’ve done today. It's only a momentary thing you helped with, but it is damn more than what the King has ever done for us.”

Alina did not know how to respond. People told her about their woes and horrific backstories on a near-daily basis, but she could never find the words she was supposed to say to make it all better. In the end, she chose to close the gap between them and embraced her.

“I am so sorry for everything you have gone through,” she began. “I promise to do everything I can to ensure you and your grandson will never have to live a day in despair again.”

Ryndin smiled. “I know you will try, girl. But you are a soldier before you’re a Saint. People like me aren't always going to be able to be helped, but it's the fact that you’re trying that counts. You’re a good kid, and you’ll make an excellent ruler.”

Alina returned to the Little Palace after that, the elderly lady’s words still ringing in her ear. _You’ll make an excellent ruler._

It would have been comforting if she was able to believe it for even a second. There were hundreds of reasons why she thought she was inept for the role of a queen — or any commanding position. Only a year ago she had been a starving soldier surviving on weeks old rations, and a little after that, a Sun Summoner wandering the halls of the Little Palace late at night with bread in one hand and a book in the other, oblivious — _stupidly_ oblivious to everything that was happening around her. She was not cut out for the job, but there was no one better than her who could do it. No one who could travel painlessly through the Fold. No one who held the capability to live hundreds of years and still look how she did at age eighteen. Only her and Aleksander could hold the position of power and bring Ravka to a glory that it never had the chance to see under Lantsov’s rule.

Alina clicked her nails together as she walked the long corridors to the centre of the palace, hearing the distinct sound of yelling and fighting further ahead of her.

“Shall I take care of this, _moi soverenyi?_ ” asked Tamar, cracking her knuckles.

“No,” Alina sighed. “I do believe this is something that only I can resolve.”

That day’s fight was between two men who had been on the opposing sides of the war. A trickle of blood dripped down from the red-headed soldier, Svante’s, lips as he spoke, “Is that really the best you can do? Hit harder!”

The other soldier punched Svante square in the face, sending him tumbling to the floor. A crowd had grown around them — most fights do —, some cheered and others begged for them to quit.

Alina stepped between them, and the hall fell silent as she spoke, “End this immediately. You are soldiers, not children fighting over who gets to have the last treat.” Her eyes fell to Svante. “What exactly happened?”

“No way in hell will I take orders from that guy,” Svante answered, pulling himself up to his knees. “I don't trust any of them. Every single person that works for the Darkling is just another bloodthirsty monster, and I certainly do not like how they treat us.”

She grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet — a smile on her face that did not match her monotonous voice when she spoke, “ _You_ work for the Darkling. The unification of our armies means that you take orders from both me _and_ him. There is no _other side_. We work on the same side now. If you do not like that, you should have taken your chances with Nikolai’s rebelling forces when there was still the opportunity, Svante.”

When Svante did not respond, Alina whispered for him to leave, and he promptly scattered away alongside some members of the crowd who had grown bored.

She turned to face the other soldier. His skin was dark and matched the colour of his brunet hair, eyes brown with a growing redness on the sclera from what she presumed to be a punch that would leave a black eye later. He could not have been any older than she was — a young, childish appearance poorly hidden by his tough exterior.

“What’s your name?” asked Alina.

“Andrei,” he answered, a grin plastered over his busted lip. “Are you going to have me get on my knees and beg for forgiveness?”

“No, nothing like that,” she smiled. “What made you join the Darkling’s forces, Andrei? Was it because you knew what he was doing was right? The thirst for blood? Or was it from the fear of not knowing what he will do to you if you oppose?”

Alina took one step closer to him and let her hand rest on his shoulder, fingers glowing with comfortingly warm light. “Neither the Darkling nor myself like infighting, especially from our more capable and strong soldiers. Do you know what I’ve heard about what he does to soldiers who continuously start fights with each other? I heard he forces them to cut off their ring fingers and eat them raw. Bone and all. That’s if you're lucky.”

It was a lie. Aleksander held those punishments strictly for prisoners and war criminals — Grisha soldiers were far too favourable to start mutilating their hands for petty fights. But she knew it did its job when Andrei’s face morphed into a look of fear.

“Don’t worry. I won’t make you do anything like that. However,” Alina allowed her light to heat up — melting through his red _kefta_ and puncturing through the first layer of his skin, “You, too, need to learn who you take orders from. I may be more merciful than the Darkling, but I will not let something like this slide again. I would not hesitate to rip out that tongue of yours if I had to. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Andrei struggled to say, bowing when she let go of him. “ _Moi soverenyi._ ”

He and the remaining crowd shuffled away — faint giggles and horrified whispers merging between one another.

Alina stood there, motionless. _Fear_ was not a tactic she wanted to rely on, but she was far from commanding their respect so effortlessly as Aleksander was able to. And she would certainly be lying if she said the looks of mortification on their faces did not give her a grim sense of satisfaction.

Her fingers were still laced with burning light when she caught sight of a little, freckled girl staring at her from where the crowd had been standing. She was quick to let the light fade and rushed to her side, kneeling and speaking, “This is no place for a child to be wandering about, Maria.”

To her surprise, Maria only giggled — so much so that she had to hide her blushing face in her hands, saying when she calmed down, “That was funny! How you scared those big scary men so easily! You...looked scary too, but you were so nice to me with Miss Alenka that I know you aren’t like them, _sestra_.”

_Sister_. Alina felt her heart drop with guilt, and she brought Maria’s cold cheeks into her warm hands. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Laughable or not, that isn’t something you should be seeing,” she said. “And what _are_ you doing here?”

Maria smiled. “I wanted to see you. My classes don't start for two hours and I really like spending time with you. You remind me of my older sister...before she joined the army.”

Alina stood up with a sigh, holding the girl’s hand. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

She took Maria through the barren corridors of the palace, listening to her zestfully talk about personal experiences and whatever assignments she was currently working on in class. She spoke far too fast but would only stop when her lungs gave out and needed to recharge.

“Look, Miss Sankta,” Maria said, pointing to the flame in an oil lamp and making it flicker in and out of existence. “I...used to be able to do a lot more than that, but since I got sick, it’s just stuff that I learned at the beginning of the year.”

“It’ll come back,” Alina assured her. “I might not look it, but I get sick fairly often. And every time I get sick, my light would extinguish. It would take _weeks_ for it to be back to its former glory. Don’t stress over your fire abilities. They’ll all come back eventually.”

“I hope so,” she stuffed her hands into her pockets. “It’s so boring not being able to do tricks with the other kids.”

Alina smiled and leaned close to her. “Say, I’m a bit thirsty. Want to help me sneak into the kitchen and steal some orange juice without getting yelled at by the servants?”

Maria’s eyes widened with excitement, and she feverishly nodded her head.

  
  


“What story should I tell now?” asked Maria, hands firmly wrapped around the ceramic mug.

“Hmm,” Alina thought for a moment, “I think I’ve heard enough fairytales. Tell me a story about your life.”

They walked through the palace’s garden. The last of the summer roses wilted and turned course; trees and brushes losing their golden leaves; the hollow wind that marked the beginning of autumn’s end. If Alina were to be honest, she would say — while still loving the liveliness of the blossomings of spring — that the garden was far more alluring in the winter when the ragged and sharp edges of the plants’ beauty were exposed. But her companion certainly did not feel the same way, and she had them treading back to the courtyard.

“Well, last summer, me and my family went into the country to go camping,” Maria began, “And I wanted to go swimming in the lake. But I didn't know how to swim, and I almost drowned when I jumped off the wooden bridge thing! I could've died! It was so scary! Luckily my uncle...”

Alina stopped listening to Maria. Her heart momentarily gave out at the sight only a few feet away from her. _Oprichniki_ crowded the area, hugging their spouses that they have not seen in weeks and giving out orders to servants and lowly soldiers. It took her only a second to lock eyes with the familiar darkening presence.

“Aleksander,” Alina whispered — unsure if she meant it to be a question or from out of relief. Her hand reached out to touch the scar on his face, a reassurance that that was certainly reality and not a creation of her mind. “You found him? You found the King? But I thought you were...?”

Aleksander did not respond, only allowed his eyes to fall to Maria — hiding behind her and clutching the fabric of her _kefta_ with a look of wild fear in her eyes. It did not surprise her. Even the bravest of children did not react as calmly to him as they had to her, less because they found him threatening and more so that their parents fed them ridiculous lies and twisted truths before bed.

“Head to your classes, Maria,” Alina whispered to her, twisting a strand of her hair. “And maybe later I could tell you about the fascinating fairytales from _my_ childhood.”

The fear present in her eyes vanished immediately, nodding her head quickly before she skipped off away from the courtyard — an innocence far too sweet for the unfurling terror. She could already tell from the abnormal silence that no one knew the King had returned to Os Alta, or at least they knew to keep their heads down and speak nothing of what they might have seen.

Alina heard him before she saw him. Disgusting and gagged noises struggled to come out of his mouth, and when she saw him, it was far worse than what she had expected. Hair dishevelled and bloodied; skin wrinkled and grey in a way she had never seen before; a rag vulgarly shoved into his mouth; eyes deranged and unfocused until they locked on to her.

She could not make out the gagged yellings of the King, only two phrases that told her well enough about what he was saying about her — _traitorous witch_ and _whore_. It was hard for her to feel hurt by those words, mainly because she had been called far worse things by people she respected more and the fact that someone as vile as him could not make her feel hurt.

By her expression and the look in her eye, one could have assumed Alina was frightened by the unkempt sight of him. But there was no fear, no sadness, no guilt to be had. Like many of the newly formed army, she hated the King. From the moment his eyes lasted one second too long on her body the day they met to Genya’s confession of what he had horrendously done to her, there was no remorse for what would become of him. She knew that death would be the only thing he deserved. The look in her eye had been one of joy.

“When is the execution?” asked Alina, forcing her eyes away from the disgruntled mess being dragged away by two _oprichniki_.

“You do not need to be there,” Aleksander said. “Executions can turn gruesome quickly, especially when it is a king that is being executed.”

“I _want_ to be there. A little bit of blood will not frighten me,” she explained. “When is it?”

He was silent for a moment, expressionless face twisting into a smile of sadism and pride. “Tomorrow morning. I thought it would only be appropriate that I let him know what it's like to sleep in the grimiest and most horrific cell block in the dungeon. I imagine that by the time the sun rises tomorrow his throat will be sore from yelling profanities at the prisoner guards all through the night.”

“That won’t stop him from yelling even more when his time is up,” Alina replied, her eyebrows furrowing. “And last night...you _said_ that you were near Fjerda. You _lied_ to me.”

“Yes, yes,” Aleksander sighed, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear — hand lingering at the nape of her neck before pulling her close to him. “I thought I would surprise you. After all, you've been so _moody_ every time you came to visit recently.”

“ _Moody?_ ” she barked a laugh. “You make it sound as if leaving me to keep the broken pieces of Ravka together with tape by myself wasn't going to leave me annoyed and frustrated.”

He chuckled, thumbing at her nape while his other hand pulled her by the chin to keep her gaze fixated on him as he whispered, “Would I be able to apologise to you by relieving you of that frustration? Perhaps tonight?”

Alina’s body tensed, uncomfortably aware of Tamar’s judging presence behind her. No matter how many ways she tried to cement the fact in their heads that she was not brainwashed or ignorantly going down the wrong path, her and Tolya would never trust him or any his soldiers. It was more painful than anything, them not fully approving of her actions.

She pushed the thought of them away, lacing her fingers into his smooth hair as she pulled herself to her tiptoes to press a firm, short kiss on his lips. “I’ll be counting down the minutes.”

  
  


There was no sunrise that morning — dark, cumulonimbus clouds rolling in from the west along with a bitterly warm wind. A distant roaring of thunder a threat to the lower residents of Os Alta, fearing another horrifying storm to flood and ravage their homes.

Alina wore the same white dress she had worn the night of the attack, Genya taking the liberty to braid her hair and jewel it with golden pins. It was a planned approach to give her an appearance that would strike a chord with the civilians present to secure whatever they thought she was — a Sun Summoner, a Saint, a bloodthirsty queen that would save Ravka.

It was not the first time she stood up on that podium since the attack — on many occurrences she had to speak to a troubled crowd and give them feigning hope for the future — and not a single time had she been scared, but now the anxiety of facing them became overwhelming. She held Aleksander’s hand until her knuckles turned white, hoping that all the tremoring would go into her grip and remain unnoticed by the common eye.

Almost every soul in Os Alta — if not Ravka — was there. Prayers were being whispered; eyes widening with fear and anger; the emotionless stared dead ahead at the bloodstained King, but in her growing paranoia, Alina was certain they were staring at _her_.

_Don’t feel_ , she reminded herself as the King’s head was forced down into the indention of the guillotine. _Bury whatever you are feeling down and deal with the consequences later._

With vacant eyes, Alina stared down at the struggling man, held down by guards far more strong than he was.

“Curse the likes of you,” the King sputtered out, “Curse any of you who approve of their witchcraft! Curse all of you who stand and gawk at this atrocity being put on _your king!_ Let the floods destroy your buildings! Let the plagues kill your children! Let the locusts eat away at your farmlands and leave every last one of you witches to starve!”

He stopped to take a long, excruciating breath. “May the Saints saturate you with gasoline and make you burn! May they give my people the strength to bring forth an uprising! May they resurrect me into a man who will _kill the Darkling and his skinny little whore!_ ”

“I do believe we’ve heard enough,” Aleksander sighed with boredom, waving his hand to the executioner to give the go-ahead in letting go of the rope.

The blade cut the King’s feverish venting off just as he reached his climax — his screaming abruptly ended as his decapitated head fell to the cobblestone ground. In the wind, it must have rolled not even a fraction of a movement, but the lifeless eyes stared directly at Alina as if placing upon one final curse on her. She remained expressionless, but her soul was screaming in pain of an emotion she could not identify.

“Blasphemy!” a man in dirtied rags yelled from within the crowd, pushing the people in front of him to stand before the podium. “You claim to be the Saint born to save us, but you do this! You kill our king in cold blood! You align yourself with wickedness! You are no Saint! You are a demon! Just like him!”

Alina’s grip on Aleksander’s hand tightened to the point she was certain she cut off blood circulation, taking one swift step behind him — her eyes vacant of emotion but her body showing her fear for all to see. She knew that that one act alone would hurt things; there were members of the crowd who were certain to think she was forced into it and the twins would be quick to find any shred of evidence that would prove their point.

Her mind was beginning to shield her from the unfolding scene that she only caught glimpses of the events that occurred. The man pulled out a pistol from a concealed holster and pointed it between her eyes, but before she could register what was happening, the invading darkness of the Cut sliced his body in half — the torso falling on to the King’s head and the head and one half of an arm landing directly in front of a poor, traumatised woman.

She heard crying of children, screaming of adults, the soft but demanding tone of Aleksander’s voice as he addressed the people of Os Alta, but she was already far too gone to know what was being said.

The corpse of the man, even as the eyes were hidden from view, stared up at her. Alina knew what he was thinking of her, what he was praying to the Saints for. Beyond his death, she could hear his weeping and begs for him to live for only a moment more to say goodbye to his children, to kiss his wife’s busted and dry lips that were forever stained with the blood their drunken landlord caused whenever a bill was missed. She did not know his name, but staring at his body, she knew every detail of his life. Whatever remained of her exterior mask broke apart and tears inelegantly fell down her cheek, but she was too separated from her body and her surroundings to know or even care.

Alina wondered what Nikolai would have done if he was there — if he had been forced to watch the death of his father before his own death. Would he have screamed? Would he have fought against the guard holding him down, somehow managing to free himself from their grasp and attack them? Would he have accepted his fate and sit lifelessly, eyes like how the King’s were now? He would not have cried, she knew that for certain. He held no love for his _father_ , and even if he did, Nikolai would never have stooped so low as to crying.

The sky lit up with lightning, echoes of thunder following behind it.

_What if it had been me?_

The thought of her own execution was not farfetched, no matter how many times Aleksander told her otherwise. Alina wondered if anyone would mourn her death, or if her body would be burnt and thrown into the ocean — any mention of who and what she was being discarded from Ravkan history, left to be forgotten. Would the Saints care? Would they welcome her with open arms as one of their own? Or would they spit and punish her for the sins she knew to be virtues?

The Saints punishing her — it was not a thought that scared her. She knew that that was what she deserved, that if Nikolai rose to power and had them executed, she did not think she would resist. And when she met the Saints and they bestowed her divine punishment, she would be relieved. Only in an unceremonious death would she find peace.

Lightning crashed again, closer that time.

Emptiness ached inside Alina’s chest — both mentally and physically from the lack of food she had eaten those past few days. It threatened to drown her, to suffocate her lungs with the absence of matter, to bring her back to how she was a year before — laying on the ground of a tent, silently screaming in pain from hunger and an emptiness she had not understood what for at the time. She was suddenly a soldier again, hands jerking without conscious control and biting her thumb’s nail as she waited in line to receive that day’s ration of food, praying to the Saints that it would stay down that time.

Part of her wanted to give in to the emptiness, allow it to swallow her whole as it did in the past. She had blacked out after a week of trekking through the summer heat. When she woke up, there was no fear, no confusion, no emotional response from her. Mal, visibly off-put by her distance, told her it was from heat exhaustion. He frowned and said, _You’re only getting weaker, Alina. You weren't meant to be a soldier. You_ aren't _a soldier._

_Then what am I?_ she had wanted to ask but her throat was far too dry to allow that to happen. _If I am not a soldier, what am I supposed to become?_

Her mind was jerked back into her body the way it so commonly was — by feather-like lips kissing her and an arm around her waist, securing her. Alina did not want to return, but she found herself clinging to reality anyways. Opening her eyes gave her no registration of the world around her. She focused instead on what she could sense — the crackling of a fireplace, the gentle warmth invading her body, the ticking of a clock.

In a cloudy haze, she began to register reality. Her cheeks were stained with dried tears, and she had been brought to their study — the familiar dark and warmness of the room easing the tension in her body just an iota. Aleksander stood in front of her, wearing an expression she had rarely ever seen him with — _fear_. It looked wrong on him, and it looked even more wrong when it was caused by her.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“No,” Alina choked out honestly, eyes beginning to burn and tears flowing over her dried ones. “I don’t...I don’t understand why I’m crying. I _hated_ him. I hated what he did to Genya. And that man...I didn't know him. I don't even know his name. And yet I’m crying over him. He was going to kill me, and I’m _crying_ over him. Why? Why did it have to be me, Sasha?”

Her blurry gaze fell to the floor when he did not respond, fearing that at that moment he would realise that she was no Saint nor queen, just a foolish little girl, and laugh at her pitiful state and discard of her.

“I don’t know,” Aleksander spoke quietly, cupping her wet cheek to wipe away the tears. “But I _do_ know that you’re only eighteen, and I keep forgetting that. You are nowhere near as old as I am, and I can't hold it against you for reacting in ways that I can’t. But compared to me when I was your age, you’ve handled things far better than I had.”

Alina traced her finger down his scar and whispered, “So it gets easier?”

“Everything does with time,” he responded, a kiss on her head that released all remaining tension in her body as she melted against his chest. “But for now, you should let yourself cry. You’ll only make yourself feel worse if you don't.”

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on [tumblr](https://lyilenor.tumblr.com)


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